


Eclipse

by TommyLane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, mildish sexual content, slight angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 20:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6024409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TommyLane/pseuds/TommyLane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is just a dance, but I can't see the steps, I can't see beyond his slate gray eyes shot through with blue. It’s my key to survival, narrowing everything down into its bits and pieces and I think I should probably be worried. But then he's here and he pushes me onto a desk and his lips are on my neck and he's not snarling. It feels like a smile and I can almost see it, the light behind my closed eyes is bright, like I'm sitting before the sun itself. I hold him close and when I whisper his given name he doesn't growl at me. He bites my neck. He rips my shirt. He is all heat and intensity. </p><p>He is everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eclipse

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters and am not making any money off this
> 
> Hey all so I'm working on a sequel to The Day Insanity Reigned but...well it didn't want to be written tonight and this sort of just popped out - I think I'm still in the melancholy mind set of His Secret to Hold (working on that squeal too if you’re wondering) to be honest. It's one of those stories that doesn't fit in cannon anywhere where it should...so...pretend okay? Alternate Seventh year with none of that nasty business in HBP.
> 
> This is from Harry's POV.

The key to survival is to look at life through a pinhole, narrowing everything down into its bits and pieces with blurry edges and a singular circular design. It’s all easy that way, it’s all straight forward, a predictable pattern instead of a gigantic kaleidoscope of confusion and chaos. A pinhole crops the picture, zooms it in and forces the rest to fall to the wayside. This way, everything is just - just. Just bits and pieces strung together like twinkling lights, some dull, the light fading and blinking - until you have to squint your eyes to even see it properly, like a photograph left out in the sun for days and months and years on end. But some are bright and blinding, some burn even through the filter, searing your retina.

But dull or bright...it is all just - just a prick of time and space.

Voldemort is just an oil stain.

Dumbledore is just a long gray beard.

My parents...my parents are dusty, spotted. I can't see them. Not yet anyway.

Hermione and Ron are bright patches but with gray seeping into the edges, like my filter is burning up around the circumference and threatening to take them away with it. I hear her voice and she thinks I’m being passive aggressive, internalizing too much, sucking it all up inside with no outlet. Then there's Ron with chocolate on the corner of his mouth and slouchy sweaters - he thinks I'm cracking even if he doesn't say it. 

My school work zooms in and out of focus, always there but unimportant. Quills and ink and parchment and old books. Grades that are dropping, my Professor's eyes - sad, uncertain, unsure.

Radish earning peeking through yellow hair. Freckled redheads, uncertain questions, dainty fingers that used to try and hold mine but now just clench the edges of cushions. 

Fluttering golden wings, wind in my face, a roar, and my feet touch back down to the ground.

Mysteries. Conspiracies. I'm tired. I work through the puzzle, sink my blade, scream my spells, run and run, and still manage to get nowhere.

Gryffindor Tower. Red and Gold. Irish lilts and deep timbers, giggling girls and creaking, switching staircases.

Unused classrooms and broom cupboards. Sneering lips and drawling words. He hates the lights and that's fine, it makes my view clearer - gray eyes, barely warm fingers in my hair, on my arms, pushing against my back.

"A kiss is just a kiss." He say's...he said...I don't remember how long ago. His frames are seeping together and distorting time to the point where I can no longer pick up the trail of memory and string it properly together.

But it doesn't matter.

A kiss is just a kiss. A touch is just a touch. And he is the brightest spot I can see. 

I fail a test. Hermione wrings her hands and Ron tries to get me to play chess. Dumbledore's beard moves with his lips in an office brimming with things I can't focus on. I brush it off, switch my filter and he's there - white blonde hair slick between my fingers even though I'm not supposed to touch. But touching is just touching. He said so, so I do anyway and he lets out a surprising noise.

Soft against my lips. Like it snuck out without his consent.

He's never soft. He snarls and he fights and he pushes against me like we're still throwing punches instead of kisses. Sharp, everything about him is sharp.

I close my eyes and let him. Let him drag his nails down my back, let him yank my tie and choke my air, let him kiss me and touch me and push me away. 

I open my eyes and he's gone, my legs shaky, my body sore.

Three goal posts, four balls, blue and bronze verse red and gold. Fluttery wings, so easy to catch, I know how to dip and dive, know how to pick it out of the skies, how to zoom in my filter and follow it through the sky. But he's here, and he's smiling - hard and small but it's a smile and I can't look away.

He is my eclipse.

The Eagle house wins and I don't see it. Hermione narrows her eyes, Ron bemoans our loss, the grass is sparse and muddy and the showers are warm and sudsy. But everything is still shadowed, I blink but I can't refocus my sight through the pinhole. I hear my teammates. I think their worried about me and I smile when I hear my name even though I don't know whose talking.

I trip up to the castle, shake my head, and rub my palms into my eyes. It's getting worse, all the pictures are dulling, their all curling at the edges, their all losing focus. 

All but him.

I think I should probably be worried. But then he's here and he pushes me onto a desk and his lips are on my neck and he's not snarling. It feels like a smile and I can almost see it, the light behind my closed eyes is bright, like I'm sitting before the sun itself. I hold him close and when I whisper his given name he doesn't growl at me. He bites my neck. He rips my shirt. He is all heat and intensity. 

He is so very far from just - he's too much to look at and my eyes widen with my pupils blown wide when I do. He's expanding, chipping at the pinhole, widening it, stretching it, forcing himself to become even bigger, even more - everything.

"Sex is just sex," he says...he said...and I whimper against his shoulder.

I am just the Chosen One.

He is just the son of my enemy.

We are just barely adults.

The world is just smoke and mirrors. Broken promises and disillusion.

I am just a tool.

School is just for here. Just for now. It will end and the war will come.

People will die and it will be labeled justifiable for the greater good.

A kiss is just a kiss.

A touch is just a touch.

Sex is just sex.

Life is just a dance, but I can't see the steps, I can't see beyond his slate gray eyes shot through with blue. His kisses turn long and soft and wet and his thrusts are slow and deep - drawing it out, drawing me out, stringing me high and straight up into the sun. He leaves me aching and dripping with the memory of his fingers trailing my skin. He leaves me on my stomach, legs still spread, face pressed into the silky pillow. He leaves me with a kiss to my cheek and my name a quiet farewell on his tongue.

But he's never gone long and my pinhole filters are changing once again, shrinking to the smallest of dots to let me see by throughout my day and blowing wide open after the sun sets. When he's back with fingers on my skin and our clothes on the floor. I forget about my destiny as he pushes inside and I am just.

I am nobody.

I am not the Chosen One.

I am not a destined murderer.

I am not a rotten friend and even more rotten student.

I am just his.

I arch my back and grip the headboard, angling my hips up for just the right angle as his face twists. 

For now this is all I am and it's bliss.

The sun blinks above the hills, I hear my friends but I don't see them, I feel a million miles away. Back in our room where there's no good and evil, no prophesied boy pitted against a tattered power mad man. I smile with my own little secret and his hand finds mine under the potions table as he stares unseeingly at his text book - elbow cocked and the lines of his face etching into bored indifference like nothing is happening.

But he's never held my hand before.

The day passes like snipped frames from a film. But it's all motions, it's all blind walking and talking and feigned listening.

"Harry." It's a moan and he's holding my hand again, his pale forehead against mine as he sits without moving inside me. Just resting. Just filling me up. Just connecting us. I can feel his pulse, his heartbeat within me, feel his breath and see his flushed skin. 

"Perfect." I whisper and he kisses me like it’s a waltz. Sweet and slow. A trace of tongue. Fingers on my cheek, brushing a curl behind my ear.

Rumors spread, gossip nothing but a wild fire, and my filter expands to take it in as I hear his name. Someone hexes him, someone says, "It’s just Malfoy," like he's beneath the scum of the earth.

My hand hurts and the skin of my knuckles are broken, the boy on the floor with a bleeding nose is looking up at me like I've lost my sanity. I am roaring inside, I see red creep up the edges of my vision, like I am burning, sucking up the fire started by gossip and leashing it inside. Ron looks scared. Hermione looks worried. Dumbledore's gray beard is moving again, lips pursing. I storm from his office, I am licking with heat inside, like they've been building a pyre inside me all my life and now someone has unwittingly lit the match. 

The dungeons are cold, the stone is hard, and he's surprised when I catch his arm and push him into a wall. He looks around wildly but there is no fear in his eyes, no worry in his muscles. He doesn't ask, doesn't assume I've tripped headlong down a pit of crazy. He doesn't pull away and I force his mouth to mine with a hand on his chin as I press into him.

He doesn't melt. He matches, I can feel him burning inside with his hands pulling at me.

He's rising, rising, growing, he's eclipsing me again and I feel like air is forcing its way back into my blood.

We burn together and for that moment he brings back my sanity.

Life is just a game.

War is just moving pieces around a board.

And when the day comes it is bright. Not dark or gray or raining like it should be. I squeeze his hand and kiss his lips and feel the pyre in my chest blaze. I run into the smoke billowing, into the forest with towering trees and dark creatures. I know it's all around me, death and darkness and killing curses. But my filter isn't letting it through, my eyes are burnt with the fire and sun and I hear his voice in my head as my wand swings out.

My soul rips. It's just the expense of war. And Voldemort falls.

I lay on the ground, muddy beneath my back, blood thick and sticky on my forehead, oozing from my scar. 

It's over. I did my part. 

Now I really am - just.

I wonder what the world will look like now, wonder how to adjust my pinhole to take it in without letting it overwhelm me, without letting the kaleidoscope explode inside me – taking the last of my soul that hasn’t been tainted yet. 

Warm fingers brush over my bleeding scar and I feel him above me, hear his voice, sharp and quiet – trembling my name. I smile and reach for him with heavy arms as I blink my eyes open.

The forest is on fire. There is cheering and crying and trees with pine needles raining down. The sun is bright and I can see Ron and Hermione. Sweaty and gritty and hugging. I see the stretch of ground, wide and winding and mud mixed with crimson. I see the turrets in the distance and the sparkling of the lake glittering in the sky.

I blink because it’s too much with my filter torn to tatters, I blink because it hurts, I blink and I see his face. His hair isn’t neat and blonde, its grimy and mucky and red, his hands aren’t clean, their muddy and raw and black. 

He’s a disaster. A beautiful disaster.

I grin and pull him to me, the sharpness of life easing back away – still there, all around me, refusing to retreat behind a new filter – but it doesn’t matter because I am just.

Just his.

And Draco Malfoy is all I want to see.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Feedback is always greatly appreciated :)


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